


Found

by Dordean, merulanoir



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gift Fic, M/M, Maybe if you talked about your troubles instead of making wild assumptions things would work out, Reunion, The reality of being immortal is that time passes and almost everyone you love will die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 21:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: As his senses reformed, and with them the ability to form thoughts, to feel more than mindless fear, it all came crashing down: the enormity of the sacrifice required to revive him; the connection the like of which he had never experienced before. The depth of his love in return.And from it all, their bond emerged—a fragile, mysterious, sublime thing spanning time and space, melting their very essence into one on some cellular level, binding them together for eternity.Or so he believed.





	Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaeltale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic to [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale)! Yes, we're a day early, but whatever. :D <3
> 
> Dor: To the best birb on your birthday - albeit a little early - may the days ahead be brighter, full of inspiration and passion. We're lucky to have you, to know you, to experience your empathy, your kindness and your wisdom. Keep shining your light. <3
> 
> Meru: BIRB we love you, so obviously you'll get bespoke porn and feels as a gift! You're the number one vampire husbands fan, so here you go, have some pain! <3 I hope I'll get to yell about fish and barber poles and cold bois to you in the future as well, happy birthday!

**I**

The world around him has changed, again.

***

For an immortal being like himself, this is the only way to tell the passage of time. Seasons, even years, are but a blink; decades pass with little notice.

But the mortal empires rise and fall, borders shift, and these small things, these inconsequential details make one realise the world is moving on, often leaving behind nothing but rubble. The unrelenting passage of time affects all, crumbling statues of once mighty rulers, now all but forgotten; turning cities to sand, from which new cities will be born.

A cycle of life and death, for some—for most. A well-deserved ending, the peace of reaching life’s destination. A conclusion, the final page of a story, left for others to tell, to rewrite, or—if one’s lucky—to continue.

For most, but not for him.

For him time stretches on like an endless desert; a desolate land filled with nothing but ruins and echoes and ashes; haunted by ghosts, and regrets. No other voice rings in the everlasting silence, no other soul lives in the vast, eternal emptiness.

The loneliness, the never-ending questions, the bottomless regret.

Regis is _tired_ , a bone deep weariness born out of seeing too much, of caring too much—and ultimately, unavoidably, of losing too much.

He has witnessed more wars than he could count. He watched the Nilfgaardian empire grow and flourish under Ciri's rule, stretching across the entire continent, as far as the Dragon Mountains, only to collapse under its own weight two centuries later, in another cycle of blood and violence.

Death and rebirth; for all but him.

***

How much suffering is one expected to bear?

The nightmare of a fragmented awareness has never gone away. The dark void, the unspeakable fear, the icy terror of not-being; those images haunt his dreams, and lurk at the edges of his waking hours.

The one that brought him back, whose quiet, steady presence was a respite Regis’ tortured mind latched onto in those first terrifying moments of consciousness; raw, disorientated, unable to tell what was real.

The gentleness, the patience Regis was offered seemed boundless, wrapped around his hurting body and soul like a cocoon. Regis clung to it in desperation; his anchor, a light in the suffocating darkness, guiding him back to himself.

As his senses reformed, and with them the ability to form thoughts, to feel more than mindless fear, it all came crashing down: the enormity of the sacrifice required to revive him; the connection the like of which he had never experienced before. The depth of his love in return.  

And from it all, their bond emerged—a fragile, mysterious, sublime thing spanning time and space, melting their very essence into one on some cellular level, binding them together for eternity.

Or so he believed.

Regis has not been himself, has not been _whole_ ever since that night in Beauclair; that one night that changed everything; only he still did not comprehend _why_.

He would have given anything to know what he could have done differently, what words to speak, or not speak at all. He went through the events countless times, driving himself to the end of reason, in his futile attempts to _understand_.

When Dettlaff disappeared, Regis assumed it was temporary. He was certain he would find him soon afterwards; he told himself that the bond going silent was his blood mate trying to distance himself, out of shame, hurt, pain.

But the bond has remained silent ever since; where earlier he could feel Dettlaff's mind and heart, his joys and sorrows, not a ripple of an emotion was present, not a whisper of a thought.

It was as if half of his soul was missing.

His abstinence would not help either—he hasn’t had a sip of blood in over two centuries, and the side effects of this are already observable. His regeneration is much less efficient and his reactions have become slower. He was quite certain the bond would be affected as well—if he had the opportunity to experience it again.

Three centuries of silence, of bitter loneliness.

For the first two hundred years he kept going, kept searching for Dettlaff, kept investigating any smallest hints suggesting a higher vampire's involvement in events far and wide. He crossed the Continent multiple times, from Kovir to the City of the Golden Towers, in his fruitless quest for answers.

But in the last century he slowly came to accept the reality: Dettlaff was either dead, or otherwise gone, not wanting to be found. Not even by Regis, by his blood mate—or maybe, especially by him.

***

Beauclair.

This felt like a mistake the moment those familiar, intricate towers came into view. Whatever possessed him to accept the invitation of the Middle Ages Institute to give a series of lectures on the history of the palace seemed like a particularly bad idea. A lapse of judgement, no doubt.

He couldn't really say no, though. He has been involved with the institute for—literal ages now. His obsession with finding Dettlaff that made him comb through archives, tomes, and countless news pieces looking for any leads also prompted a few discoveries he then published under the Institute's auspices. And when they came to him, he felt he owed them this much.

And so there he was, walking around those haunted halls and terraces, where every stone whispered of those he failed—

“You can see the subtle differences in the finish of the corbels,” he says, and would smile if it wasn't so damn painful.

—or of those he hurt.

Beauclair, a metonym for everything he lost.

***

There were a handful of good memories he had of this place.

Geralt, inviting him at Corvo Bianco, as one of Regis’ rare returns to the duchy coincided with Ciri's visit; the sight of the witcher with her children the single most heartwarming image Regis has ever seen.

Ciri herself; poised, regal, though that spark of hers was never fully quelled, ready to burst free at the first opportune moment—seemingly reconciled with her fate, even happy. Geralt’s fierce pride, once he accepted the reality and the inevitability of her choices. The world looking a little better, a little hopeful back then.

The long evenings of that one summer he spent in Toussaint, sitting under the stars in Corvo Bianco's gardens, drinking the very first bottles out of the vineyard's cellars. Wine discussions with Geralt, alchemy discussions with Yennefer. The voices of Dandelion and Priscilla, telling one story or another. A glimpse of peace.

But those memories, too, are unavoidably tainted with pain.

***

Geralt was deadly pale, but calm; content even. They all knew it was coming—even with the witcher’s longevity, to get to the age of two hundred and fifty was unheard of. Geralt would be the first witcher to die in his own bed, too, which was damn near impossible (as he himself would often repeat in that drawl of his that lost little of its strength over the years.) Yennefer was by his side; so were Ciri's great grandchildren. Regis suspected that losing her was what prompted Geralt’s initial decline, all those decades earlier.

Humans aren't meant to live that long, after all; they are not meant to outlive their children by a century.

And immortals aren't supposed to love them for the very same reason.

***

He was no longer driven by obsession; and although the deep, seeping wound in his soul would never heal, it was no longer dictating his every step. But habits built over the centuries are difficult to shake.

Which was why he found himself there, in that old library at the edges of the historical centre of Beauclair; a coincidence, a fluke of destiny; a stroke of luck the likes of which he has not experienced in a long while, the likes of which he no longer expected.

The scent, unique, unforgettable. The books falling from his hand, landing on the floor with a loud thud. People turning, startled and angry, shushing him.

But he heard nothing, saw nothing. He was suddenly reduced to pure instinct: his mind, his entire being narrowed down to this single thought, this single need. He rushed through the rooms, oblivious to anything but the near-forgotten pull, until he finally found it: a quiet corner, and in it, a figure so familiar the sight ripped open his deepest wounds; the pain, the longing, the anger seeping out like pus.

The man looked up—

***

The movement behind him snaps Regis out of his thoughts and back to the present. It's still dark, but the dawn is near. He turns and the same ghostly blue eyes look at him now, hazy from sleep, soft.

Regis reaches out to caress those cheekbones that belong on a marble statue, too perfect for a living being, his heart singing, a song of belonging and _home_. This feels right in a way nothing has, not once in those long centuries since the night the streets of this very city were awash with blood.

Dettlaff smiles a soft smile, all the broken pieces of him are falling into place, and the world is changing, again.

 

**II**

When Dettlaff senses the presence, he knows at once it is too late for him to hide. His ears pick up the sound of a heavy stack of books falling to the floor near the loans desk of the library. He goes completely still for a second, closing his eyes.

He is not ready. Not today, not now; facing his past would mean looking into the familiar eyes and seeing how much he destroyed.

Despite knowing how futile it is, Dettlaff flees. He half-runs up the stairs, into the section of contemporary elven poetry, and then his feet refuse to carry him further. He leans on to a shelf and tries to breath steadily; already now he feels the familiar soul tugging at him, closing in on him.

Light steps reach the end of the stairs and pause, and Dettlaff hears a stifled gasp. His mind has gone very empty. He has arrived at a crossroads, and the way ahead is obscured; there simply isn’t a way to see even a step further now.

Just when Regis steps into view, Dettlaff reaches inside his mind and gropes blindly for the bond. It has been dormant for so long, and for a millisecond Dettlaff fears it has withered away. And then Regis’ black eyes meet his, and his mind explodes into a cacophony of feelings and half-formed emotions.

There is fear, disbelieving hope, something dark and hurting, and all is red-tinted with raw anger.

Dettlaff is slammed against the shelf so hard it gives an ominous creak. Regis’ hands are fisted into his dark shirt, knuckles white and shoulders so tense he looks ready to snap at any moment. For a second they stare at each other; Dettlaff is thrown back to the moment his heart broke.

“How could you?” Regis hisses. He is starting to shake, and the bond is going absolutely haywire inside Dettlaff’s head. “How could you disappear and leave me?”

Regis is angry, but that is not what makes Dettlaff’s stomach clench painfully; no, it’s the utter agony of betrayal that drips from every syllable. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Regis starts to look hysterical.

“You disappeared without a trace, cut the bond we had, and left me alone for three centuries! Do you have any idea how many years I spent looking for you?” His voice is rising and gaining an edge, and from the corner of his eye Dettlaff sees someone pausing their walk to stare.

“Regis, please,” he pleads, “calm down.”

“Calm down?!” Regis shouts, slamming him against the shelf again. His eyes are wide and disbelieving, and so, so angry. His hands are trembling where they almost tear Dettlaff’s shirt.

“I looked for you! I looked for you for over two hundred years, and you never thought to reach out to let me know you were alive?” Regis continues. He snarls at Dettlaff, and now people are definitely starting to notice something is going on.

“Regis.” Dettlaff pleads, and at the same time he grips the bond. Regis blinks, not ready to let go of his anger, but Dettlaff uses the momentary surprise to push forth everything he feels at the moment. He wants Regis to know he is sorry, so deeply sorry he cannot begin to put it into human words. He needs to make Regis listen for long enough.

Regis gasps as the flurry of emotions hits him. His anger doesn’t abate at all, but there is a crack in his wall now.

“I want to talk to you,” Dettlaff continues, “but not here. We can’t do that here.” He speaks quietly, all the while feeling the gazes on his skin. His neck is starting to feel hot.

“I looked for you,” Regis repeats, and his voice cracks on the final syllable. Before Dettlaff knows what is happening, the hands gripping his collar are gone, and Regis crushes him into a hug. Dettlaff feels Regis bury his face into his neck as the tears come, and then he has his arms full of a sobbing higher vampire.

He turns to look at the staring humans, and some murderous glares are enough to send them on their way. Maybe they will think they witnessed a lovers’ spat, with a higher level of drama than usual.

Dettlaff turns his focus back to Regis, and draws him flush against himself. Regis’ chest heaves as he lets all control slip away from him, and Dettlaff holds him, murmuring soothing nonsense and stroking his hair. It’s still dark with streaks of silver, but it’s much longer than he remembers. Some of it is spilling free from the tie Regis had used to keep it out of his face.

Dettlaff doesn’t know how long they stay there, but finally the tears stop coming and Regis draws in a huge gulp of air. Dettlaff doesn’t let him go at once. It feels so good to have Regis back, if even for a while. His own heart is hurting, the beat a dull drum that spells out his crimes.

“I’m sorry,” Dettlaff whispers. “I had my reasons, but I know I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

Regis’ breath hitches, and then he draws back enough to look him at him. His eyes are still glistening, but his hands are finally releasing the vise-like grip on Dettlaff’s shoulders.

“Please don’t leave,” Regis rasps, and in that moment Dettlaff forgets the centuries both of them have spent walking the earth. There is only Regis, still seeing right through him like the first time they met.

“I won’t,” Dettlaff whispers. He tucks away a strand of hair clinging to Regis’ wet cheekbone. “Will you walk with me?”

Regis only nods. As he steps back, a fresh wave of hurt goes through Dettlaff. Without thinking, he reaches for Regis’ hand and grasps it.

Both of them freeze. Regis’ hand is limp, and dread crawls inside Dettlaff’s heart. It lasts for a second too long, and then Regis winds his fingers among Dettlaff’s, and a tiny, sad smile appears on his face.

They make their way down the stairs, and in the lobby Dettlaff sees a librarian picking up a pile of fallen books. She shoots an ugly glare at Regis, who looks down and bites his lip. Embarrassment flickers along their bond.

“I smelled you,” Regis says very quietly as they step out of the big main doors. “And my brain went completely blank. I thought I had finally lost my mind.”

Dettlaff can’t help grimacing. Guilt is starting to eat him up inside with renewed vigor.

Regis blows out a breath. “And then I dropped that huge pile of books and ran to find you. I’m feeling quite certain I will no longer receive a warm welcome here.”

Dettlaff purses his lips and gives Regis’ hand a careful squeeze. It is met by a tightening of fingers a moment later.

The afternoon is slowly turning towards evening around them. Dettlaff watches people walk past them as they make their way out of Hauteville, where the main library had been relocated some hundred years before.

“Why Beauclair, of all places?” Regis finally asks when they pass under an archway to the Gran’place. The ancient, white marble front of the Cianfanelli Bank is slowly turning pink in the lazy evening sunlight. The air is full of scents of spices and fruits. The harvest has been excellent this year.

Dettlaff sighs as he leads them across the square and navigates his way among people and stalls.

“It felt… fitting, in an odd way. That I should find a semblance of peace in the place I once swore I’d never return to.”

“Peace?” Regis echoes, and something in his voice makes Dettlaff pause. Regis stops walking, too, and they stand face-to-face midst the late-afternoon crowd. Dettlaff has to look away from Regis’ eyes, because they are suddenly so earnest, filled with a desperate need to understand, and he doesn’t know if he is able to offer satisfying answers.

“What are you doing here, Dettlaff?” Regis asks. His free hand comes to rest against Dettlaff’s heart.

Dettlaff spends a moment gathering his thoughts as his eyes are drawn back to Regis against his will. It’s like Dettlaff’s mind has been starved of the sight, and now it takes everything in with a knife’s edge focus.

Regis’ hair is escaping from the hair tie, and it seems to glow in the light of the setting sun. He is clean-shaven, only with a hint of sideburns, and dressed in simple and comfortable clothes; a linen shirt and black slacks, with an embroidered vest.

“I came to live here,” Dettlaff says, and it comes out like a confession, or the beginnings of one. “I spent a long time watching the human world grow and change, and finally, when I couldn’t run away from the truth any longer, I came here.”

Regis’ eyes widen. The hand that is resting against Dettlaff’s chest curls into the fabric. “So you… you live among humans now?” Regis’ voice is disbelieving. It drives a stab of hurt through Dettlaff, because once these news would’ve made Regis glow with pride and happiness.

“I do,” Dettlaff says. He is feeling strangely loose, cast adrift: there is no way he can back out from this conversation any longer, but he is not ready.

“I’ve been here for about ten years, now. I have a shop, I still make toys and fix things,” he explains quietly. He had loved the toy shop, and when he came back, the thought of doing something else felt awkward. Little by little, he started to fix the kinds of small machines humans used in their homes, learning their mechanics and the ways electric currents worked.

He tells all this to Regis, as they resume walking. Dettlaff leads them through the marketplace, and down the road that slopes gently towards the Harbor Gate.

“I haven’t been to Beauclair in several decades,” Regis confesses softly when Dettlaff finally runs out of words. They are walking across a small park, a later addition to the historical city.

“I couldn’t come back. After the last of my friends in Toussaint passed away, I steered clear for a long time.” His voice grows hoarse with suppressed emotion, and in a blink of a moment Dettlaff makes a decision and pulls him closer. He holds Regis tight, and hears how his breath stutters. Regis wraps his arms around Dettlaff’s waist, and they stand there for a long time.

They end up sitting on a bench and watching a gurgling fountain in silence. Dettlaff is still holding Regis’ hand, because he fears the other vampire will disappear into thin air the second he lets go. Despite knowing that this will not last, he is not strong enough to give it up yet. Feeling Regis’ mind along his own is waking a wide chasm of hurt and longing inside him.

“What did you do, after I left?” Dettlaff finally asks. He fears the answer, because it will only serve to emphasize his failures as a pack member and everything else besides.

“I stayed for a short while,” Regis says. His eyes grow unfocused and melancholy. “I was certain I’d find you, but I needed to make sure Geralt was all right before I could leave.”

The name of the witcher shakes something loose inside Dettlaff, and he viciously steps on that feeling before he manages to examine it.

“After I got him out of the prison, we found out Sylvia Anna had plotted the assassination of her sister, the Duchess,” Regis continues. His thumb is stroking Dettlaff’s knuckles, in an absent-minded caress that feels like a flame thawing out age-old frost. “The Duchess did not appreciate our insinuations. Geralt was allowed to keep the vineyard, but he was a _persona non grata_ in the Beauclair palace ever since.”

“What happened to the witcher?” Dettlaff forces himself to ask. He knows he owes the man an enormous debt, but his heart is hurting; he’s spent three hundred years trying to come to terms with what happened, and what followed from his decisions.

Regis chuckles and catches his eye. His smile is tired and warm. “He never really retired, bless his heart. The common folk of Toussaint got a resident witcher, who dappled in wine making and took care of any monsters that cropped up.”

Dettlaff waits, knowing what follows and allowing Regis to tell the story at his own pace.

“He died well over a century ago.” Regis’ voice is tight with longing.

Dettlaff ignores his own hurt and wraps an arm around Regis’ thin shoulders. Regis scoots closer and it shouldn’t be this easy to have him close again after all these years. It’s like no time at all has passed in that regard, and yet Dettlaff knows everything is different now, and there isn’t a way to go back.

“I’m sorry,” Dettlaff murmurs, “I know you were close with him.” He feels like he might be drowning, and Regis turning his head and resting it against his chest does nothing to help.

“It’s true, but he got to live out his days in peace, after all. He had a home in Corvo Bianco, and his daughter, Cirilla, visited him whenever her imperial duties allowed.”

Regis’ hair tickles Dettlaff’s cheek, and it would be too easy to bury his nose into it and breathe in the scent of home and belonging.

It doesn’t belong to him. It never did.

“Did you _—_ did you stay here as well?”

It’s not the question Dettlaff wants to ask, but he fears his heart might not be able to bear the answer to the real one plaguing his mind.

Regis turns towards him. He is frowning.

“No,” he says, “I looked for you. I told you.” It comes out broken and full of hurt, and Dettlaff understands just as little as he did back at the library.

“But I left so you wouldn’t have to,” Dettlaff says. He wants to pull away, because touching Regis is making all his walls crumble, and he fears what Regis will find behind them.

Regis stares at him, disbelieving and more than a little angry again. “’So I wouldn’t have to?’” he echoes, forming the words like they’re made of something sharp and painful. “How could you think I wouldn’t-”

“I left because without me, you would’ve been able to stay with the witcher,” Dettlaff blurts out, a bit too loudly. His breathing is shallow, because by the elders, he is not ready for this discussion. He is not ready to hear he has ruined Regis’ life yet again.

Regis goes completely still and stares at Dettlaff. The bond feels frozen inside Dettlaff’s head.

“I had to remove myself from the picture, so you could be happy,” Dettlaff continues. His voice grows smaller and smaller, but he can’t keep this bottled up any longer. “Without me weighing you down, you could’ve been with _—_ with Geralt.”

Saying the name feels odd. He’d only ever addressed the witcher by his official title. It also feels like acknowledging what he couldn’t ever have had, no matter how things might’ve gone. Geralt, a witcher and a human, had been there first; he had claimed a place inside Regis’ heart long before Dettlaff had gotten his chance to do so.

Regis’ face suddenly crumbles. He draws in a sharp breath, and for a second Dettlaff fears with his whole being that he will leave. Then Regis presses a hand in front of his mouth, looking ill. He is naturally pale, but now he goes positively ashen.

“No,” he whispers to himself. “No, please, not like that.”

Dettlaff reaches for him hesitantly. He doesn’t know what is making Regis react like this, but when his fingers touch Regis’ cheek, the black eyes snap back to him.

“I never,” Regis chokes out, “I was never with him.” His eyes are wide and horrified, and Dettlaff doesn’t understand anything.

“Did the witcher not want to _—_ ” Dettlaff begins to ask, anger coiling inside him at the thought that someone would turn Regis down, and suddenly Regis’ hands are cupping his cheeks.

“He was my _friend_ , Dettlaff,” Regis says very slowly. “My dearest friend, who got to live happily until the end of his days, with the love of his life, Yennefer.”

The words drop one by one into a rattling silence. Dettlaff feels Regis’ hands on his face, sees the frantic stare, and then Regis growls with frustration and drags him into a desperate kiss.

Dettlaff goes stiff with alarm, and Regis retaliates by biting his lip so hard it bleeds. The taste of blood punches through him, and before he can attach any conscious thoughts to the action, Dettlaff is crushing Regis against him and kissing him back.

Regis tastes like tea and home, and his thin lips move against Dettlaff’s with a mixture of anger and desperation. They stay there for a long while, tasting and feeling each other, and Dettlaff senses something hover over them. When he finally pulls back, Regis’ eyes are pained and his lips are swollen.

“You went away because you thought I was in love with Geralt?” Regis asks. His arms stay around Dettlaff’s neck, breath ghosting over his lips.

“I couldn’t stay and continue hurting you,” Dettlaff corrects him. “I spent a long time healing myself and growing, and I knew that if I ever wanted to find you again, I’d need to be in a better place and able to live among humans-”

“And you stayed away for three hundred years because of that?” Regis interrupts him. He is blinking away tears again, and Dettlaff presses their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he feels the guilt grow some more. “I thought I was taking away your happiness by staying. You stood with the witcher at every opportunity, and I thought you were…” He can’t bring himself to say the words.

Regis’ breath hitches. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have told you.”

A silence falls, and Regis swallows heavily. His fingers are playing with Dettlaff’s hair, and the touch is both distracting and soothing.

“I fell for you when you brought me back,” Regis finally says. “I fell for you so hard, and I couldn’t bring myself to confess any of it, because you still mourned losing Rhena.”

Dettlaff looks at Regis, looks at the familiar face, and remembers. How Regis had woken up, gasping for air and almost breaking his new body in his haste to get away from the horrors that had plagued his nonexistence. How he had broken down completely when Dettlaff had explained what had happened, and then slowly started to heal. And how they had carved out a place for their slow existence during that time, learning each other in a way that was only possible for their kind.

Dettlaff had spent countless nights watching over Regis’ sleep, his thin form held against his own body to drive away nightmares. There had been endless days of laying tangled together in the cave where Dettlaff had set them up, talking and dozing, never more than an arm’s reach away. Love that had taken root during that time had driven away the depression of losing Rhenawedd, and Dettlaff had been on the verge of drawing Regis just that much closer when the blackmailer’s letters had found him.

“I looked for you for so long,” Regis continues. He leans his head on Dettlaff’s shoulder, and they stay tangled together now, too. “My friends told me it was verging on an obsession, but I thought… I thought, what if you were just around the corner?”

“I didn’t want to be found,” Dettlaff says. “I’m sorry.”

“I will forgive you,” Regis says quietly. “And I am sorry for not spelling out in the clearest possible terms how much I loved you.

“In the end, I had to distance myself from everything that took place,” Regis continues after a short pause. “I tried to isolate my heart a little, so as not to go completely mental. I pushed away a lot of memories and feelings, until I could begin to live again.”

Dettlaff knows that feeling; he’d done the exact same thing when he’d disappeared. He’d tried to release his pain and love, but he had always lacked the mental fortitude Regis possessed; in the end, Dettlaff had resigned to live feeling like half of him was missing.

Dettlaff continues holding Regis, and his heart is breaking. He heard the past tense, and it makes him want to cease existing altogether. He wants to disappear, this time for good, because for him the verb is still in present tense, and dealing with Regis having moved on will prove impossible.

And then some small part of him yells, _stop now, this instant! This is how you lost him in the first place! Stop running, stop avoiding the bits that hurt, and treat Regis to the honesty he himself shows to everyone he holds dear._

It’s a piece of his soul that had only come to be once he let go of his anger and allowed himself to mourn everything he’d lost.

“I still love you.” The words fall away from him before he has the time to think things through, and Dettlaff feels his chest grow tight with fear. But they are out in the open now, and Regis is turning to look at him with wide eyes.

“Pardon?” he asks, even though he most certainly heard Dettlaff the first time. He is so close Dettlaff can just pick out his pupils from the black of his irises.

“I’m still in love with you,” Dettlaff says.

He’s miserable, because he wanted to tell Regis this back when he was walking again for the first time, and smiling so wide his fangs glowed in the light of the oil lamp; or when Dettlaff woke up and Regis was looking at him with a soft smile, only some inches separating them under the covers; or when Regis was waiting for him at the toy shop, with sad eyes and endless reassurances it would all turn out alright.

And now he has said it, and even if it might be too late, he has done one thing right: because now Regis knows he’s worth loving and someone has done so for hundreds of years.

It all bleeds through Dettlaff’s mental blockade, and trickles into the bond they share. When he realizes his hurt is lapping at the connection, Dettlaff tries to pull it back, but Regis’ hands are suddenly back on his face.

“No, please,” he chokes, “I want- I need you. Don’t leave again.” Regis’ lips quiver, and Dettlaff understands; feeling each other after so long apart is like a continuously bleeding wound disappearing. Their kind are not meant to live alone, and Dettlaff feels physically ill at the thought of losing the connection again.

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” he promises. He means it, and Regis feels it, because then his lips are brushing Dettlaff’s again. This time it’s slow and hesitant, asking for permission. Dettlaff closes the distance, because there is only so much he can deny himself, and Regis’ company and proximity have never been among those things.

Dettlaff finally allows his hand to sneak around Regis’ waist, the other one playing in his hair. He decides he likes it long, just as he delights in Regis still looking just like himself even in modern clothing.

Regis’ hands grip his hair gently, and when his tongue brushes against Dettlaff’s lips, he parts them without a second thought. The bond floods with want and love, and when Dettlaff pulls back, his lips are tingling.

“I still feel it,” Regis breathes. He is looking awed. “I thought I misplaced this feeling, but it’s still here.” He kisses Dettlaff again, and again, relief and hope mixing into the chaotic warmth taking over them.

“Please stay,” Dettlaff whispers into one of the kisses, just as he stands up and drags Regis against himself. They fit together so well, and he finds himself never wanting to let go.

“I can do that,” Regis smiles, his fangs flashing, and then there is heat edging along the bond, too. Dettlaff swallows and pulls Regis with him, walking at a brisk pace. Regis lets out a delighted laughter as he follows.

They could fly in their mist forms to his home, but the sun hasn’t fully set yet, and the streets are full of people. Dettlaff doesn’t want to risk anything in his hometown, and something about walking with Regis feels right. He has a chance to show he really is living among humans, if only by holding Regis’ hand as they make their way towards the cluster of houses near the old Beauclair port, and sneaking kisses as often as possible.

They are not far away from the building where he lives in, when Regis apparently runs out of patience. Dettlaff doesn’t get so much as a warning before he is forcibly backed behind a closed stall and out of the view of the few people on the street. Regis presses him against a wall, and without a pause slots one leg between Dettlaff’s. Then he kisses Dettlaff again, licking into his mouth, his hands coming to rest on Dettlaff’s hips as they rock together.

It’s too easy to fall into this, Dettlaff thinks as he kisses back and his hands clutch Regis’ shirt, slowly inching it up from where it’s been neatly tucked in. Regis bites his lip again, and this time Dettlaff lets out a gasp. His fingers tighten and Regis thrusts, biting back a moan.

“I have wanted this for so long,” he breathes, eyes completely black. “I want to take you apart and then have you for myself.”

“Yes,” Dettlaff murmurs, meeting him halfway and slipping his hands against bare skin. “Yes.”

Regis leans into him, teeth ghosting along his neck, and Dettlaff wants to offer himself up. He wants Regis to bite him, like he did when he was healing, and the act of providing made both of their heads cloudy with absolute certainty that they would look out for each other. He wants that certainty again, because he is in love, and it is unlikely to ever change.

Regis’ hands are suddenly plucking open his pants ( _jeans, humans call them, Dettlaff thinks vaguely,_ ) and then clever, restless fingers are brushing on tender skin as his mouth returns to Dettlaff’s and continues taking and taking.

Dettlaff knows he is hard and aching, but only when Regis’ palm grazes his cock does he realize how wound up he is. He lets out a ragged moan, which Regis swallows down like it, too, nourishes him.

“I love you,” Regis whispers, hand moving and hips rocking into the space between them, “I’ve loved you for a long time, and now I’ve found you.”

“Regis,” Dettlaff whimpers. He is like a raw nerve, and all his longing and aching love is bursting free for Regis to take or discard.

And Regis takes it, cradling it against himself on the plane that only they have access to, and Dettlaff trusts he will be forgiven when the time is right.

“I want you,” Dettlaff pants. Regis’ black eyes flash with mischief, and then he backs away. Dettlaff takes in the view in the split second his mind requires to process they are no longer pressed together in an alleyway, a few steps away from being discovered; Regis is aroused, and the smell is rolling off of him. He blinks, and his eyes return to their human state. And then he grins, his sharp teeth flashing like a promise.

“Come, my dear,” Regis says in a low voice.

The walk to Dettlaff’s home feels like it takes several human lifetimes. Dettlaff is acutely aware of Regis’ hand brushing against his arm or thigh every few steps, and his head swims with the possibilities. Regis is smiling, a small, happy expression that tugs at Dettlaff’s heart just like it did in the past. It invites him in, and every time he stops and pulls Regis closer for a kiss, some of the fear melts away.

When they finally get into his apartment, Regis takes it in with that same smile. The urgency abates as he walks the few rooms, and then he comes back to Dettlaff and hugs him. Dettlaff wraps his arms around Regis and holds him close, and they stay there for a good while, breathing each other in. The setting sun glitters over the water in the harbor, and the blushing rays paint the west-facing rooms with warm hues.

“Your home is lovely,” Regis says as he pulls back.

Dettlaff smiles. “It’s a place to live. My shop is downstairs.” He hesitates, and then adds, “I could show it to you later.”

“I’d like that,” Regis whispers. He pulls Dettlaff in for a kiss, and this time it’s calm and lovely; his tongue sweeps over Dettlaff’s lips and caresses the fangs, and Dettlaff meets him there. His fingers toy in the long, dark hair, and as they allow their masks to slip away, deep relief washes over him.

He runs a finger along a pointed ear, and Regis sighs happily, kissing him deeper.

Regis backs him into the bedroom. His hands push away Dettlaff’s shirt, and there’s something gently teasing about doing this the human way instead of turning to mist and materializing again. Dettlaff mirrors his smile as they slowly strip each other, hands running over familiar places, finally able to draw this kind of pleasure from the touch; physical closeness was natural and needed during Regis’ recovery, but it almost always served a function.

Now, as Dettlaff collapses onto the bed and Regis follows him down, hands roaming and brushing over sensitive spots, it’s done because it feels good and erases the hollow echoes within them. Dettlaff trails his fingers up and down the spots on Regis’ wiry frame, and marvels at the sight of the sun brushing his skin into a deeper, more unearthly tone. Light fades around them, and the approaching night is full of nascent promises and deep relief.

Regis tucks his face against Dettlaff’s neck again and inhales, deep and possessive, and Dettlaff tips his head back in surrender. This is the way he wants to be loved, he thinks hazily. Without a doubt that he belongs to someone: with a promise to lay a permanent claim to his erratic spirit and anchor him.

But he’d managed to anchor himself enough for Regis to find him again, he thinks. The thought flickers over the bond, and Regis smiles as it registers. His hard length is pressing insistently against Dettlaff’s thigh, and it’s so easy to fall open and urge Regis in.

The second Regis slides home, Dettlaff gasps and gives up the pretense of being in control. His body is alive after what now feels like three hundred years of uneasy sleep, and Regis grips his hips hard as he looks down at him.

“I got this feeling back,” he says quietly as he fucks Dettlaff, all slow and gentle movements for now. “I won’t lose it again.” He brushes against the spot that jolts Dettlaff awake to the heady feeling of home and need and lust.

“I want you to stay,” Dettlaff tells Regis. “Or if you don’t wish to stay here, I’ll come with you.”

Regis leans down, and halts for a moment. His eyes are all black, but they are soft and gentle; his face, his own face, not the gentle human one he dons so effortlessly, is alight with happy incredulousness.

“I might hold you to that,” he laughs, and another wave of relief rocks them both.

Regis hands find his shoulders as he starts to move again, harder now, and Dettlaff feels fangs against his neck. He cranes his head back, baring his throat the way he already bared his heart, and when Regis’ fingers wrap around his cock, fangs pierce his skin.

Dettlaff lets out a sound that is something between a gasp and a growl, and Regis’ answer rumbles against his tendons as he drinks. Dettlaff arches off the bed as he spends himself, overwhelmed by everything he feels, and his mind turns itself inside out; he is in love, and his pack is whole again.

Regis licks along the wound, helping it close, and then he rolls them over. Dettlaff brushes his hair out from his eyes, and his own mess of curls spreads on the pillows. There is a long silence, as hands caress cooling skin.

“I would like to stay with you,” Regis says as he settles deeper into the embrace. “I’ve spent so many years wandering, it would be nice to have a home again.”

Dettlaff nods. He inhales their combined scent, mixing with the general musk of sex and blood, and he feels a new sort of happiness start to take root; it’s calm like a sunrise over the Seidhe Llygad, inching along too slowly for an eye to see, but unstoppable and inevitable nevertheless.

“Let us make home.”


End file.
